


Dream A Little Bigger

by pen_rabbit



Series: Rise [2]
Category: Dark Knight Rises (2012), Inception (2010)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-14
Updated: 2012-09-14
Packaged: 2017-11-14 05:04:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/511611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pen_rabbit/pseuds/pen_rabbit
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Dark Knight Rises: an Inception origins story, part two. In which Alfred and John both find that unexpected encounters can have unforseen results.</p>
<p>(You mustn't be afraid, darling.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dream A Little Bigger

**Author's Note:**

> Again, a huge thanks to my superb beta omletlove, and to my lovely cheerleaders viennajones and dayari. <3

Alfred feels it first. He's never managed to lose those old reflexes – never really wanted to. He knows when someone is watching.

He keeps walking, the perfect picture of an old man out for an evening stroll, carefully scanning the quiet, mostly-deserted street. His gaze brushes over the tall buildings, flowers dripping from window-pots and graffiti scrawled over old plaster, lingers on the shadows he can see lurking purposefully just out of the corner of his eye.

Florence is warm this time of year, soft and gentle in the evenings. A girl brushes past him carelessly, muttering an apology but keeping her head down as she hurries down the street.

Alfred reaches out and grabs her arm.

The shadows shift.

"Excuse me, young lady," he says in polite Italian, before switching to English. "But I don’t believe that belongs to you."

"Sir?" She blinks up at him, eyes widening innocently, pretty face blank with confusion. Alfred admires the skill behind it, smiles, and tightens his grip.

The shadows shift again, restless and growing deeper in the fading afternoon light.

"My wallet, young lady, if you please. I'm sure you need its contents far more than I do myself, but I’m afraid that my passport will not be of much use to you, and I do in fact require it back."

She twists away from him, glaring up from beneath dark lashes, and the icy chill of the look makes Alfred blink. Then he smiles again. “Now, if it is a meal you’re after, I am on my way to dinner. I will pay for you and your friend in the shadows there, in return for getting my passport back.”

She scowls. “With your wallet we may buy our own food.”

Alfred chuckles. “Ah, but without me, you won’t be able to use my credit card.”

He doesn’t expect her to take him up on it, not really, but to his surprise, she does. Her friend stays in the shadows, likely intended as insurance against him trying anything funny. He has no such intentions, of course, though he suspects she’d be able to handle it pretty well even if he did.

They eat at the outdoor tables of his favourite restaurant, and she orders the same things he does, mimics his way of holding himself, watching his movements with a sharp, incisive gaze. It’s been a long time since he’s had company for a meal, and he is perfectly happy to do most of the talking. He rattles on about the weather, about the restaurant, about the architecture and history of the city: easy, comfortable subjects. She drinks it all in with a watchful gaze, more audience than conversational participant.

When the food arrives she eats like table manners are some foreign thing she’s heard about, but never bothered to learn.  He has no idea what her name is, where she’s from (though it’s clearly not Florence), or why she was picking the pockets of old men in the street, but nonetheless Alfred finds he likes her rather more than he expected to. Oddly enough, something about her reminds him of Bruce, and he finds himself reminiscing aloud about when his charge was a young child, how Alfred had raised him after the accident, all the mischief and fire and fury of a gawky, awkward, angry teenager.

His company listens with curious eyes, like these stories are fairy-tales she can barely imagine being true.

As a reward for her patience with his reminiscences, he offers to buy her dessert. When he learns she has never had ice cream before, he insists. The amazement on her face when she tastes it squeezes something in his chest, tight and fond and familiar.

“I’ll be here again tomorrow,” he tells her after the waiter has cleared the plates, taken his tip, and assured Alfred that the meal will be charged to his hotel as usual. “In case you decide to come back.”

She smiles at him, and he stands, leaving several bills on the table. He nods at them. “For your friend. So they don’t go hungry too.”

The smile falls off her face, and she stares after him with a strange look in her eyes. He bids her good evening, walks away, and doesn’t look back.

 

+++

 

It’s a quiet little bar. Dark enough to be private, music loud enough to cover conversation but not so loud as to be deafening, generic enough to be vaguely familiar even though John’s pretty sure he’s never been here before. He’s got a glass of whiskey next to his elbow. Opposite, a floppy-haired young man is grinning at him. “What do you think?”

John raises an eyebrow, takes a sip of his whiskey, shrugs. “Fine, I guess.”

The whiskey tastes strange. He sets it back down, eying it carefully. He doesn’t remember ordering it. He looks up at the other man. “I’m sorry, have we met?”

The man sticks out a hand. “Dom Cobb. Pleased to meet you, John.”

John smiles back, and takes the offered hand. “Pleasure’s all mine.” He tightens his grip until the other man winces, tries to pull away. Still smiling, he leans in close. “Now, do you want to tell me how you know my name, and just what you put into my drink?”

Cobb sighs. “Sorry. I guess I don’t spend enough time in places like this. What’s wrong with it?”

“The bar? Or the whiskey? Or the fact you seem to be assuming that I’m going to go along with your insanity?”

“All of it, I guess,” Cobb waves at the waitress. “Excuse me ma’am, what do you think about this? John’s clearly not happy with the whiskey. What ‘s wrong with it?”

She glares at him. “Leave the man alone. It’s none of your business if his whiskey tastes off.”

John looks between them, hackles rising. Something is clearly not right. He wishes he had his gun. “What’s going on? How did she know what the whiskey tastes like?”

“She’s one of your projections – she knows because you know,” Cobb says. “Remember the debriefing up top? Shared dreaming?”

The bar goes utterly silent. Everyone is staring at them. John looks around, then takes a deep breath. “We’re dreaming right now, aren’t we.” It isn’t a question.

Cobb beams at him. “See, I knew you were quick.”

The waitress pulls an AK-47 from underneath the table. “I’m quicker,” she says, and the bar melts away in a spray of gunfire.

John wakes up laughing.

Next to him, the floppy-haired man rolls over on his reclining chair to stare at him. “Well, that was unexpected. You’ve got a vicious subconscious on you, John.” He smiles. It makes him look practically prepubescent. “But you picked it up amazingly fast. I think you’re probably a natural. I have a feeling you and I are going to do great things together.”

John looks over at him – at Cobb. They hadn’t really been introduced before the dream, but he remembers what he was told when they hooked him up. Cobb is an academic, an idealistic young specimen from some university somewhere, brought in for a new phase of dream-share research: teaching the army’s brightest and best new ways to kill each other and then waking them up again afterwards.

John has no problem with that. It’s something new, something different. And who knows – it might even be fun.

There’s just one thing. He leans over.

“Don’t call me John.”

Cobb squints at him. “I thought that was your name?”

John has a moment where all he knows is burning heat, rough sand, and pounding gunfire.  He takes a breath, lets the moment pass, then shakes his head. “Nah, I don’t go by that anymore.”

His squad had called him the King at first, because of the royal stick up his arse. He’d hated it, of course. But after the dust settled from their first mission abroad, after they’d patched up the wounded, cleaned the grit from their guns, and gotten royally drunk together on contraband booze, he had a new name. King Arthur, the warrior prince from the slums of the country’s new Camelot.

Hearing it back then had always made him laugh, and it makes him smile now, a little half-smirk flickering at the corner of his mouth. He knows they’d like him to have something to remember them by.

He holds out a hand to Cobb. “Call me Arthur.”

 

+++

 

She isn’t there the next night. Alfred can’t bring himself to be surprised. He tells himself he’s not disappointed.

But, unexpectedly, he finds her at the restaurant the night after that, waiting at his usual table. He doesn’t comment, just slides into his seat, orders them both a drink (Fernet Branca for himself, lemon water for the lady), and starts talking about his day.

And that’s the start of the pattern. She’s never consistent. She might be there one night, or even a few in a row, and then she’ll be absent again for longer still.

Alfred finds himself hoping, every evening, that she’ll be there.

He doesn’t know if she comes for the food, for the company, or for his stories. He provides all three, and it seems to be enough. She smiles at him over their dinner, and he can’t help but find reasons to stay just a little bit longer.

He’s been in Florence a few weeks now – more time than he usually spends away, but he has no compelling reason to return to Gotham. His presence in Wayne Manor is unnecessary now, with no one there to care for. The lawyers have been asking him to come home - there’s yet another push to have Bruce declared dead, and as heir apparent it seems they want him to be present. There’s no evidence, of course, nothing but the passage of time, but that doesn’t stop the vultures from circling.

Alfred hates being around for those discussions. Another reason to stay in Italy just a little while more. Besides, Lucius will inform him if anything changes.

He avoids talking about these things with his young friend. Instead he talks about Bruce, about his own past, about his childhood. He tells stories about his time in the military, carefully censored, watching to see how she reacts. The violence doesn’t seem to faze her in the slightest. Alfred tries not to let that worry him.

Her shadow stays in the distance. Alfred gets glimpses of broad shoulders, thick arms, and a face swathed in cloth, hidden. He knows better than to bring it up, but every time they part, he leaves her a few bills for the shadow’s meal.

And slowly, gradually, he gets to know her. She doesn’t say much, never gives him any details about her past. It’s just the little things. Reactions. The way she frowns incredulously, or can’t hide the quirk of a smile. He constructs theories, discards them, builds new ones, and every so often he is struck again by just how young she is, and how old she seems, and then again by how little she seems to know about the simple basics of human interaction.

He learns about her in increments: how she seems to be both fascinated with and disgusted by society at large. She has no respect for any authority that has not been earned. Caring for those weaker than oneself is worthy of respect, but somehow unfathomable all the same. And she hates Gotham for reasons that continue to be completely beyond his understanding.

 

+++

 

Talia likes Alfred.

It’s a novel sensation, really - she’s not used to liking anyone. Except for Saheb, of course, but he doesn’t really count. _Like_ is far too simple a word for everything that lies between them.

(Saheb is both better and worse, since the doctor’s drugs have faded from his system. His mind is clear, but the pain is always present. They steal what medications they can, enough to keep the agony relegated to the fringes of his mind, but never enough to keep it completely at bay. He distracts himself with activity during the day, keeping watch over her, learning how this strange new world works and doing whatever is necessary to ensure they are safe and fed. He can’t trade on the strength of his body, not as he is now, but he learns quickly, face veiled with cloth as he teaches himself to navigate the underbelly of society. So far it has been enough. They are still alive, they keep moving, and her father hasn’t found them yet.

And every night she curls around him as he shudders in fretful sleep, voicing his agony as he never would when awake. She hates that he always wakes so tired it seems he never really slept at all.)

Saheb disapproves of Alfred. Of course he does; it isn’t safe. She picked a man’s pocket, was caught, and instead of calling the police he took her to dinner. She was ready, all through the first evening, to stab him with the knife hidden in her skirt if it became necessary.

But it wasn’t. Alfred didn’t even try to touch her. He just smiled, talked, and ordered her the delicious iced cream. She almost went back the next night, just to have it again, but Saheb convinced her to follow him for a few days first.

He was right to be so cautious, of course, but Alfred certainly seemed to be exactly what he appeared – an old wealthy man on holiday, a little bored, glad to have company.

Saheb still isn’t happy about it. But he does nothing to stop her from going back again, and again, enjoying the food and the taste of a world completely foreign to everything she’s ever known. Some days, sitting with Alfred, she almost manages to forget the pit altogether.

She’s looking forward to the food and the stories Alfred has promised for today. The waiter leads her to their usual table, brings over her usual drink, and a menu to peruse as she waits. Alfred arrives at the same time every evening, regular as clockwork, and she always gets to the restaurant just a little before he does. 

Talia doesn’t understand most of the words on the menu, so she sets it aside. She will just order what Alfred does, as usual. He’s started ordering different things every evening, and she suspects it’s because of her. But apart from the recent discovery that she has a strong distaste for olives, his choices are always delicious.

Ten minutes later, Alfred still hasn’t arrived. She frowns, looks over to where Saheb is crouched in the shadows. He is watching, of course. Their eyes lock, and he shrugs but doesn’t move. She settles back in her seat to wait a little longer, ignoring the nervous tension that curls through her. Alfred has probably just been delayed. He’s probably fine. Likely he will have an entertaining story to excuse the delay when he arrives.

Time passes. Alfred is half an hour late.

Talia gets up, nods to the waiter, and leaves. Saheb falls into step beside her.

“He has never not been here before,” she says, watching the cheerful passers-by, vaguely annoyed by how happy they seem.

“Could he have returned home?” His voice is soft. If she looked, there would probably be pity in his eyes. Her stomach clenches.

“No. He would have said.”

“Are you sure, love? He is only a man, and you are blinded by affection.”

Talia _hates_ the gentle understanding in his voice. “You are only a man, and I am blinded by nothing.” It comes out harsher than she intends, the words falling between them like jagged glass and shattering beneath her feet as she hurries on.

She can hear the sucked-in breath, doesn’t need to look to know that he’s hurt.  She presses her lips together, and doesn’t take it back. Instead she says, “We will find him.”

Saheb bows his head in acquiescence and doesn’t say anything else.

Silently, Talia leads him on a swift, thorough search of the surrounding area. They find nothing. She darts glances at him out of the corner of her eye, furtive and quick, but his face is impassive under the thick swath of cloth.

Getting into Alfred’s hotel is easier than expected. Talia lifts a room pass from a cleaner, and then it’s as easy as remembering which suite is his.

The place is a mess.

Shocked, Talia stands and stares, eyes flicking over chaos. All the pretty cream furnishings are awry, tables and chairs overset, lampshades broken and cast aside. Underfoot, there is the soft crunch of shattered glass. Saheb pads silently down the hallway to check the other rooms, and returns shaking his head.

“There is no one here. This is the only room in such a state.”

Talia takes a deep breath. Alfred would never make such a mess of his own volition. She knows it. A wash of dread spirals through her, bile rising in her throat. He is old. He would be unable to defend himself against a stronger man. If this was home (not home, she tells herself, not anymore), she would already know he was dead. She shakes her head, trying to clear it, trying to think. This is not the pit. The rules of this world are different. Maybe ( _please_ ) Alfred might still be alive.

The phone rings, the shrill tone echoing in the devastated room, pulling her out of her thoughts and making her jump. Neither of them moves to answer it, and after a minute it switches to the answering machine. A man’s voice, tinny from the speaker, says, “We have your grandfather.”

Relief is a flood, almost dizzying. Talia takes a deep breath, steps across, and picks up the phone. “He is not my grandfather,” she says. “But I want him back.”

“Whatever,” the voice sneers. “We know who he is, girlie, and Wayne Industries is gonna pay dearly to get their precious old man back. You tell ‘em it’ll cost five million euros if they want him in, shall we say, _mint condition_.” There’s a brief pause, raised voices in the background, then the man speaks again. “They get one day. Twenty four hours. After that, he might have a little … damage. So they better make up their minds pretty quick-smart.”

She trails a finger over the blade of her knife. “You know who he is. Do you know who I am?”

“Some bird he’s been banging? Oooh, are you a gold-digger? Are you bitter we stole your investment, sweet cheeks?” He cackles. “I bet I’d be a much better sugar-daddy than this old goat. You get us that money, and I might be interested in purchasing your services – if you know what I mean. I’m sure you’re sick of making nice to ugly old men.”

Saheb is behind her, has been listening over her shoulder, and she can feel the anger radiating like heat from his body. He reaches out to pluck the phone from her hand, but she bats it away. “Where do I bring the money?”

“We’ll tell you that when you’ve got it. Make some calls, pull some strings, and stay near this phone. We’ll be in touch.”

There’s a clunk, and then the dial tone sounds. She sets the handset gently back in its cradle. Behind her, there is silence.

This is the conversation she and Saheb do not have:

                You should not care about him. He is a liability.

                I know. I don’t care.

                You care. You mean to save him.

                So what if I do?

                This is a bad idea. You should not risk yourself for a man you barely know.

                I don’t care. I have to save him.

                Why do you feel so strongly about this man? Did he buy your heart with a few good meals and a friendly smile? Do you feel you

                owe him something now?

                No. I don’t know. But I can’t leave him to die.

                This world has changed you. Before, you would never have cared about a helpless old man.

                I know. Will you help me?

                I should not. This is folly.

                Please. _Please_.

He knows her too well to need to say any of it. She knows him too well to have to ask. 

“They are near the river,” he says softly.

“I heard the boats,” she agrees. “A warehouse, perhaps?”

“Or an apartment, or a house. Too many variables. I will make some enquiries.” He steps away, and she reaches out to grab his arm.

“Use my father’s name.”

He freezes, the muscles under her hand going still. She swallows, but doesn’t say anything else. If it is known that the League of Shadows is searching for these kidnappers, they will be that much easier to find. If they have learned one thing in this new world, it is that Ra’s al Ghul is feared by all who know him. Trading on that has been something they’ve avoided before this, for fear of drawing his attention, but she doesn’t care about that now. 

Saheb nods. “Stay here. It will be safest.” He doesn’t wait for her response before disappearing out the door.

 

+++

 

After the first time, Arthur goes under as often as he can – as often as he’s allowed. His own dreams or someone else’s, alone or with others, he’s not picky. He’ll take anything he can get.

The chemicals are tightly rationed, though, and it’s still nothing like enough. Not when the rush of having such control over the dreams is so exhilarating. Not when the sheer glory of creating whole worlds is so utterly intoxicating. Not when he can build entire cities just to burn them to the ground, shoot to kill with no consequence, and die as many times as he likes and still wake up again.

Arthur knows better than to let himself get addicted. He does, really. He’s seen the consequences of chemical dependence far too many times not to be wary of the thrill of chasing that one next high. He tells himself this is different. He’s not physiologically addicted to the dreaming, there’s nothing to make his body crave another hit. It’s only his mind that craves the stimulation, the control, and the freedom. He can quit any time he wants to.

He’s also aware of the irony of that thought. He ignores it.

Arthur fills the long hours between dreams as best he can, learning everything he can about the technology. Research has always been his default position when faced with an unknown. He starts at the beginning.

The PASIV is run by a tech who only knows the basics, which is frustrating. The manufacturer, some anonymous military contractor, is the only one with the schematics. Apart from some rudimentary troubleshooting, any issues are dealt with elsewhere. Arthur learns what he can, jots it all down in his notebook, and resists the urge to sabotage the device just to see what would happen. He moves on to the dreams themselves instead.

Fortunately, his first impression of Cobb was accurate: the young academic will talk dream-theory with anyone who stands still for long enough, and he’s delighted to have an interested audience. Arthur learns quickly, and soon they’re debating Jung vs Freud, the role of the collective unconscious in simulated reality, the philosophical consequences of self-aware projections, and a hundred other impossible things. Arthur’s never had this kind of challenge before, and he loves it with a ferocity that surprises him. It’s almost as intoxicating as the dreams.

He’s less fortunate with the other project team members. They hate his subconscious, and Arthur can’t say he blames them. It makes them wary of him, cautious, like he’s a feral animal that might snap if they say the wrong thing. It’s understandable. They’re none of them long out of Basic, picked for their potential, no combat experience in any of them, and not a lot of any other kind of experience either. None of them pick up dreaming like he does. He can see the resentment in their eyes. He ignores it. He’s essential to the project, after all. That’s why they’ve got him, the one veteran in a group of rookies. He's there to give them combat experience without ever requiring any real combat. All the reward, say the higher-ups, and none of the risk.

If Arthur can teach these kids what death feels like, the project will be called a success.

 

+++

 

Alfred wakes in an unfamiliar room, tied to a chair, head throbbing, and immediately starts cursing himself. He’s been kidnapped before, and he should have known better than to form a routine. Especially if there have been whispers about Bruce being declared dead – an inheritance of that size always attracts attention.

He leans his weight back in the chair, wincing as a bolt of pain shoots down his neck. He hopes they didn’t give him a concussion when they knocked him out. His thoughts are hazy, drifting, but he pulls them ruthlessly into line, ignoring his throbbing head. If they want money, they’ll need to get in touch with Gotham. Maybe they’ll contact the company, or the legal firm that deals with the Wayne estate. The lawyers would be the best bet: he doesn’t have the kind of money kidnappers are usually after, not until Bruce is legally deceased. He’d hate for them to do have to do that just to pay these bastards, but he’d certainly prefer it to death. Still, that’s a hell of a lot of paperwork to push through, and he doesn’t know how long it’s been since they grabbed him.

He looks around, twisting his wrists against the tight unyielding rope. He’s sitting in the only piece of furniture in a small, filthy, windowless room. There’s a single bare bulb set high in the wall, lighting up the dirty walls, the old, crusting carpet. The air is stale – underground, maybe. There’s only one door, locked. He pulls against his bindings, but there’s very little give in them and he can’t reach the knots. He rocks the chair, testing, but it feels fairly sturdy. Alfred would probably do more damage to himself than to it if he tried any acrobatics.

Right.

He works his hands against the rope, ignoring the burn as the bindings cut into his flesh. One hand slips, catches painfully, slips again. Alfred struggles harder, pulling mercilessly, and then all at once he has a hand loose. A few short minutes later both hands are free, and Alfred stretches his arms out with a sigh of relief. Then he looks down. His ankles are tied even tighter than his wrists had been, and while once upon a time he would have been able to reach them easily, he's not as young as he used to be. His back twinges at the mere thought of trying to bend himself into that position.

Alfred sits back, rubbing his sore wrists and weighing his options. Even if he did manage to contort himself enough to get free, the door is still locked. He's effectively trapped, at least for the moment.

They’d taken him while he was getting ready to meet his young friend. He hopes she agrees to forgive him, and tries to ignore the distinct possibility that he may not get the chance to ask.

 

+++

 

Talia hates Alfred.

She hates how easy it was to like him, how he somehow tricked her into it, into this emotional chaos of caring, and how hard it is now to turn it off. Because he’s vulnerable, and he’s been taken, and she can’t do anything to get him back.

Talia’s never cared about anyone vulnerable before. She hates it.

She paces the hotel suite restlessly, crushing the shattered glass into the carpet as she treads on it again and again. Saheb has been gone for hours and she hates him too, hates everything and everyone in the world for making her feel like this, a ridiculous storm of anger and worry and unfamiliar fear.

She takes out her knife and runs her fingers down the blade, again and again, before throwing it at the wall. Her aim is still excellent. It lodges in the ugly cream wallpaper, sticks. Talia tamps down on the urge to decorate the wall with an intricate pattern of holes – Alfred told her it’s rude to destroy other people’s property without permission, and while she doesn’t care about other people, she does care about him.

Which is, of course, the problem. Still, she leaves her knife where it is for now.

Instead she paces, and waits.

 

+++

 

Alfred’s drifting, half asleep, when he hears the crash. For a moment he thinks he dreamed it. Then he hears the shouting.  It’s too muffled to make out any words, but the anger in those voices makes him hope that things aren’t going entirely to plan for his kidnappers.

He leans down, stretching, trying to reach the knots around his feet. It hurts, oh, it hurts, his back is a mess of agony, but if he can just manage to…

There are more noises from behind the door, voices yelling, a door being slammed. Alfred pulls harder, and his fingers brush the ropes. He fumbles for the knots, pain and urgency making him clumsy, but he just can't seem to reach. He sits back up, hissing with frustration, twisting his legs uselessly against their bonds.

A few moments later, everything goes quiet. Alfred strains his ears against the silence, and can just make out the soft jangling of metal. Something scrapes at the other side of his door. He sets his chin and pulls his shoulders back, ready to meet his kidnappers.

The door swings open. His young friend walks in. Alfred stares.

She hurries forward, eyes flicking over him, assessing. There’s a knife in her hand. It has blood on it, Alfred realises with a start. She wipes it carelessly on her skirt, grins when she notices he’s already got his hands free, and then crouches to cut him free from the rest of the ropes.

Released, Alfred stretches his legs out and leans forward, his body screaming abuse at him, muscles spasming in protest at everything he's put it through. He takes a moment to register his displeasure at his body’s frailty with the universe, and tries to remember how to breathe. His friend brushes his hair back, runs careful fingers down his arm and then pulls him to his feet. “We need to go,” she says softly. “Come on, be quick.”

Alfred staggers, but she catches him. “How –” he gasps. “How?”

“Escape now, questions later,” she tells him. “We need to hurry. He’s causing a distraction but we haven’t got long.”

“Distraction?”

She doesn’t answer, just pulls him towards the door. Through it, he can see a large open space, a warehouse, filled with crates, bales, and assorted machinery.

Alfred’s feet aren’t cooperating, much to his chagrin. He glares down at them, unimpressed. His friend is holding him up, dragging him forward, and he’s leaning on her much more than he’d like.

A voice from the doorway makes him look up. “Going somewhere, sweetie?”

Next to him, his friend bares her teeth at the thin, non-descript man who is holding a gun. It’s trained on her. Alfred scowls and tries to step in front of her. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees her use the cover of his movement to tuck her knife out of sight, and somehow he still ends up standing beside her. He’s not quite sure how that happened, but he’s a little impressed.

“Now, now, that’s not very friendly, is it? Running away before we’ve even had the chance to introduce ourselves? Not friendly at all.” The man shakes his head, though the gun remains steady. “Too bad. No manners left in the world anymore, are there, Mr Pennyworth? Though from what I’ve heard, I’m sure you’re more disappointed by it than I am.”

Alfred draws himself up as tall as he can, trying not to sway. “Speaking of manners, you seem to have the advantage on me. Perhaps an introduction might be in order?”

The man laughs. “Nice try, but no. You see, you’ll be dead pretty soon regardless, so it doesn’t really matter. Your little girlfriend, on the other hand – if she plays her cards right, I might even let her live.” His eyes rake up and down her body, an ugly smirk etched across his thin lips. “Oh yes, I might indeed. If she’s a good girl.”

Alfred’s hackles rise, and he steps in front of her again. “How dare you be so rude to a lady!” Low, out of the corner of his mouth, he mutters, “Break the light.”

The man frowns and opens his mouth again, but his friend is quicker. She shifts behind him, and then the knife flies upward, shattering the single bulb illuminating the room. There is a fizzing, hissing sound as the fuses blow, and a moment later the entire warehouse is plunged into darkness. The kidnapper starts swearing furiously, and fires into the darkness. Alfred throws himself at his friend but she’s already moving. He finds himself hustled into a corner and then she’s gone, disappeared into the darkness.

 

+++

 

Talia doesn’t waste time wondering how Alfred knew to douse the lights. The darkness is her cloak, as it has always been, and she slips easily into its folds, not bothering to hide a fierce grin as she retrieves her knife and moves for the door. Saheb will be waiting.

The kidnapper shoots blindly at where they’d been standing, but he’s far too slow. He steps away, back into the warehouse, towards the meagre light from a few small, high windows. She follows, ghost-like, slipping behind him, tripping him over and stealing his gun with almost absurd ease. He scrabbles away over the ground, eyes wide and darting as he tries to see her through the gloom.

She can hear Alfred moving behind them, loud in the darkness as he, too, moves towards the light.

Saheb appears behind her, looming over her shoulder and glaring at the kidnapper. Talia relaxes back against him easily, one hand still holding the gun. “The others?”

“Taken care of. All of them.”

“Thank you.”

“My pleasure.”

“What shall we do with this one?”

Saheb looks down at the man still lying on the floor. “He insulted you. I shall kill him.”

Talia looks up at him and smiles, fond and happy. His eyes crinkle above his cloth mask, and he runs a finger down her chin. “Any man who dares to stand against you; I am his bane.”

She leans into the touch. “Thank you, my friend.” Then she straightens, casts a glance back towards the smaller room. “But in this case, I think we must offer him to Alfred, first. It was Alfred he intended to have killed. Justice is balance.”

Saheb nods. “As you wish.”

Alfred has moved to stand a little way behind them. She holds the gun out to him. “He is yours to kill.”

Alfred clears his throat. “Uh, thank you. But, if it’s all the same, I’d prefer to involve the police.”

Talia raises her eyebrows, confused. “Why should we bother? He kidnapped you. His crime is clear. Why not simply settle the matter now? If he is dead, he cannot threaten you again.”

Alfred shakes his head. “No, I’m no executioner. It’s not my place to decide what will be done with him. That’s for the law to do.”

She blinks. The law isn’t trustworthy. “Misguided idealism.”

“No. Merely a sense of proportion, and of compassion. I’m not going to kill him.”

Talia frowns in frustration. She doesn’t understand how a man so intelligent cannot understand why the criminal should die. She remembers what her father taught her, and how much sense it made. Surely this is known, surely this is understood by all? “Criminals thrive on this, on the compassion and understanding of society. Compassion is merely weakness, and an unwillingness to acknowledge what must be done. He needs to pay for his crime, or he will do it again.”

“Justice and vengeance are not the same,” Alfred says. “Compassion is a virtue, and I will not choose revenge over justice. The judicial system exists for a reason, and it is not my place to take the law into my own hands. I will not.”

She looks at Saheb. He shrugs. He does not know her father’s teaching either. She will have to tell him later, because clearly Alfred is confused. Maybe it is because he is old.

But, she supposes, the crime was against him, and so the decision is his. Besides, they must act swiftly, regardless of the action. She pushes her dissatisfaction aside and turns back to Alfred. “As you like. If the police are to be involved, it will be better if we leave.” She tucks the gun into her waistband and turns away.

“Bitch!” screams the man on the floor, hoarse and loud. He’s taken advantage of their discussion to get his feet under him, and now he lunges towards Talia. “You bitch! Whore! You ruined everything! I’ll make you pay!”

Saheb pushes her out of the way and steps in front of the man, trying to block his wild movements. She stumbles away, but the man is fast, and Saheb’s reactions are just a fraction too slow. One flailing hand manages to grasp the cloth that covers his face, yanks. The cloth falls away. The man staggers back, eyes going wide. Saheb puts up his hands, trying to cover his face as he gropes for the cloth.

“ _Monster_ ,” the kidnapper hisses.

Talia shoots him in the chest. He drops like a stone.

“Sorry,” she says to Alfred. She’s not, really, even if it was supposed to be his choice. She’s sorry to have taken that away, at least.

Saheb takes a shuddering breath and stills, hands still covering his face. Talia puts the gun away and moves closer, picking up the cloth and tying it back around his face. “All right?”

He closes his eyes, nods. “I am well, love. Thank you.”

They stand like that for a moment, still and silent and close, breathing each other in. Just for a moment. Then Saheb turns to look over at Alfred.

Talia turns as well, following his gaze. Alfred smiles blandly at them both. “Well, that didn’t turn out quite as I would have preferred, but I suppose it’ll have to do.” He looks around at the mess. “I don’t know about the two of you, but I’m quite famished. Shall we go back to my hotel and order room service?”

 

+++

 

This is how Alfred ends up sitting at the dining table in his poor, devastated apartment, and watching his two young rescuers devour several meals worth of food between them. The young man keeps the cloth over his face as best he can, clearly uncomfortable revealing the scars. Alfred is careful not to stare, to keep his manner relaxed, trying his best to put them both at ease.

“I wanted to thank you,” he says, as they eat. “You didn’t have to intervene.”

His young friend shrugs, doesn’t say anything. Alfred continues. “I don’t even know your name, and I owe you a rather large debt. Both of you.”

Her face closes. “You may repay the debt by forgetting you ever saw him.”

Alfred raises an eyebrow. “And if I would rather repay the debt with something more substantial?”

She narrows her eyes. “What?”

“You saved my life. Let me save yours.”

They both look up at that, twin looks of suspicion. 

“I don’t pretend to know where you came from, or what you are running from.” Alfred leans forward. “And you don’t need to tell me, if you prefer not. But I can give you a place to run to. Or rather, a place where running is no longer necessary.”

“You do not know what it is that chases us.” It is the man who speaks this time, voice gravelly and hoarse. “You cannot possibly know what it is you offer.”

“I am offering new identities. New lives. I have the connections necessary to make that happen. And,” Alfred pauses for a moment, gaze flicking between them. “I have also connections with the finest medical services the world has to offer. I believe they may be able to fix what was done to you.”

Her eyes widen, and she turns to stare at her companion. He is shaking his head slowly. “We were told nothing further could be done.”

“Nothing further wherever you where, perhaps,” says Alfred. “But Gotham has some of the best doctors in the world. Trauma, plastic surgery, reconstructive surgery – I believe they will be able to help you.”

“And pain?” she asks, one hand on her friend’s wrist, fingers tense. “Pain that does not stop? That is always there? Can they fix that, too?”

“I am not a doctor,” Alfred admits. “But I believe so. Certainly they can make things better than they are now.”

She smiles, and Alfred can see the hope in her eyes. “Very well. We accept.”

He smiles back. “Wonderful. I promise, you won’t regret it.”

 

+++

 

Arthur has to stifle a groan when he opens his eyes to the blank ceiling of the military compound. They were only under for about ten minutes. Two hours of dreaming feels cruelly short.

He sees a glint of fellow-feeling in Cobb’s eyes when the CO, Saunders, declares them done for the day. The frustration of having to come back to reality smoulders under his skin, distracting. He sits up stiffly, pulling the IV from his wrist and rolling out his shoulders. Nearby, one of the kids is throwing up into the bins they keep specifically for that purpose. Arthur watches impassively, tries to remember how she was killed. He thinks it was disembowelment this time. Should have dodged quicker.

Cobb shuffles behind him, carefully making some noise before he sits down next to Arthur. He learned his lesson about being too quiet, then. Good.

“Missiles, Arthur? Really?”

Arthur huffs a laugh. “They told me they wanted something ‘dramatic’. I was merely following orders.”

“You were showing off.”

He laughs again, standing and stretching before moving towards the door. The CO throws him a glare, but doesn’t try to stop him. He’s mostly there to corral the children, anyway, and Arthur’s taken to ignoring the orders he thinks are crap. Which, to be honest, is most of them. But he’s indispensable to the project, Cobb likes him, and the paperwork does get done (eventually), so the higher-ups are happy. Saunders can suck it up.

Cobb follows him out, down the corridor and towards the mess. The coffee here might be crap but it’s plentiful, and that’s a luxury Arthur intends to take advantage of every time he wakes up. It’s become a comforting routine by now, sitting with Cobb and dissecting the dream over cups of caffeinated black sludge.

“You were in the bunker, right?” Cobb asks. “Did you see anything weird?”

“Weird? What, like missiles coming out of empty desert to blow up the campsite? No, absolutely nothing weird at all.”

Cobb shakes his head. “No, not the stuff you planned – and don’t look at me like that, I know you work on coming up with the maddest things you can think to throw at them. Other things. Last time I was in the safe zone, there was a stuffed tiger and a set of keys I’d never seen before. Weird, you know?”

Arthur frowns. “Now that you mention it, there was a pile of paper I don’t remember having put in the bunker. I didn’t look at it. It’s not the first time it’s happened. Didn’t think it mattered.”

“I think it matters, though.” Cobb leans forward. “These things turn up in the safe places, right? That’s got to mean something.”

“They’re not mine, and they’re not yours. They’ve got to belong to the kids, then. And they’re not doing it deliberately – none of them are good enough, they don’t have that kind of control.”

“Why would they be doing it, though? It doesn’t make any sense.”

Arthur’s eyes widen. “Oh. Yes, it does.”

Cobb squints at him. “What? What is it?”

“They’re protecting those things. They’re putting them into the safe space so they aren’t harmed, or damaged, or whatever. The weird things are precious for some reason. Secret, maybe. Things they want to keep safe.”

“That … that makes sense,” Cobb nods. “But does that mean we can get at the secrets, and – I don’t know, extract them somehow? If we’re in the safe places?”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says. “But next time we go under, we can try.”

 


End file.
